


Five people who couldn't save John and one who could

by mtowntimeagent



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Friendship, M/M, Memories, Post Reichenbach, References to Suicide, Therapy, Triggers, selective mutism
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-09-11
Updated: 2012-09-11
Packaged: 2017-11-14 00:36:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,242
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/509450
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mtowntimeagent/pseuds/mtowntimeagent
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After the fall, John stumbled deeper and deeper down a hole of depression, unable to be the man everyone thought he could be. John has been put in a treatment facility after a half-hearted suicide attempt. These are six short chapters of conversations with five people who couldn't save him, and finally the one who can. </p>
<p>(Rating for triggers on suicide attempts and self-depreciating thoughts and other possible triggers)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Five people who couldn't save John and one who could

**Author's Note:**

> I have had no one beta this, so forgive any horrid mistakes. 
> 
> I know I have put trigger warnings everywhere else, but I will do it here as well.
> 
> There ARE references to suicidal thoughts and suicide attempts, so be warned that if these are a trigger for you, you should probably not read this.
> 
> I know this is fairly dark, but it was not meant to be a fluff piece, so please do not mistake it for one.

The five people who couldn’t bring John back, and the one who could.  
  
Chapter 1: Mycroft  
  


It was a frigid winter day in the busy city of London. But that was something John Watson was no longer aware of. John had retreated into his head. It happened gradually over the course of two months. It had started with eating less and less. Food seemed like something that was no longer necessary. When it all boiled down, John wasn’t sure what was necessary anymore. He wasn’t even sure why. Nothing made sense. Nothing mattered. That was where he had ended up. First was the eating. Then the lack of contact. John stopped going to work. He stopped answering the phone. Then he stopped speaking. It was at this point his friends began to realize something was very, very wrong. They would take turns watching over him. Checking on him. Making sure he was still eating enough to keep himself alive.

 

It had been Lestrade that had found him on the floor with a bottle of pills, though he had a strange feeling that John hadn’t intended on really ending it. The man was a doctor. If he wanted to end it all, he had the methods and the means, and pills weren’t it. But they were what landed him in the institution. Watched twenty four hours a day. The last place anyone expected to see Captain John Watson. Everyone thought him strong and stoic. But that had only lasted so long. He had seen his men die. Over and over in the field the men under his charge were killed at the hands of infidels. But this was different. This was Sherlock, and everything was different when it was Sherlock.

 

“How are you today, John?” the voice was familiar. Once a week Mycroft Holmes came to visit him. It was like an elderly family member on their deathbed. Everyone was just waiting for it to be over. John gave no response.

 

“Still not talking I see.” The elder Holmes brother took the chair across from the silent doctor. He rubbed idly at his thumbnail, a habit he had taken up as a teenager and had never been able to drop. John’s eyes looked up at through Mycroft. He didn’t actually see the tall man sitting across from him.

 

“You’re looking better. Have you been eating?” He asked. John gave no response. The meals were forced on him. The orderlies were made to stay in the room with him until he ate at least something. He eventually just started eating to make the people leave. Mycroft himself had lost a good deal of weight from the last time Sherlock had seen him. His brother’s death had left its mark on him as well.

 

“John...” Mycroft sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose. He had tried everything. They all had. They had tried begging and pleading. They had tried to get angry. They had yelled at him until they were blue in the face, but yet John remained still and silent. It was an eerie sort of peace that didn’t sit well with anyone.

 

“John, you need to come back to reality.” Mycroft fiddled with his umbrella handle. He had never been one for sentiment. He never cared for anyone, but he did this for Sherlock. He knew it was what his brother would have wanted. John blinked his eyes and for the first time in a very long time, he looked at Mycroft. He didn’t look just to his left or above him, but actually looked into his eyes. The older man was actually taken back for a moment.

 

“John, there are people who need you.” he said, trying to appeal to him. John then looked away again. No. No one needed him. It was useless for anyone to need someone else. He needed Sherlock. He needed Sherlock more than anything in the world. Sherlock had fixed him. Helped him to realize life was worth living. But then he had gone and...

 

“John, I know you’re in there.” Mycroft interrupted his thought process. The doctor swallowed hard. The only sign of recognition from the man in the chair across from the one doing the speaking. It’s a good day. Mycroft thought. It was rare that he got any kind of reaction from John. Even so much as a glance or a hard swallow acknowledging his words. It was amazing how one learned to read the body language of someone who didn’t speak.

 

“You’re not just a shell, John. I know you can hear me. I know you understand me. I know you understand that what you’re doing is wrong.” he said. John’s face didn’t budge, but his insides were tight and pounding. He wouldn’t hear it. How was he supposed to go on? He had been called selfish. He had been called a coward. Even his old war buddies had said they were ashamed of him. Years of service in the Army. Watching countless deaths. Almost having his own. But this was what broke him? No one saw it coming. He was supposed to be the strong soldier. But he couldn’t do it any longer.

 

“This will be my last visit.” Mycroft told him. It took everything in John’s body, weak from lack of movement, to not look at Mycroft. The elder Holmes had come to visit him once a week, every week, for the seven months he had been here. It was routine. It had come to be the natural order. How could he change that?

 

“There is nothing more I can do for you.” He sighed, playing again with the edge of his umbrella. He had tried. He really had. There was nothing left to be done. Even the doctors and psychologists had no plans. They had tried everything they knew to get through to him. They were still trying every single day. But there was no change. There were no breakthroughs. It was all downhill.

 

“I have done everything that could have been expected of me.” Mycroft said, rising from the chair. This was obviously going to be a short visit. He looked out the window at the city below. It looked cold.

 

“I will continue to pay for your stay here. That will not change. It wouldn’t do to have you in a...lower class facility.” he sighed, knowing that Sherlock would have never stood to have John put in anything but the highest class facilities available. Then again, if Sherlock were here, John wouldn’t be in this position in the first place.

 

“But this is the last you will see of me for some time.” He said, looking at John as if waiting for a reaction that he knew wasn’t going to come. He wasn’t sure what he expected. A glance, a stare, a swallow or a whimper. But there was nothing. John simply stared at the window, unmoving.

 

“Very well...Goodbye, John.” Mycroft told him, placing a hand on the doctor’s thin shoulder as he passed him walking out of the room, the door closing quietly behind him. Inside John’s head, he was screaming. Crying and sobbing and begging the man not to leave. His last real tie to Sherlock had just walked out the door, breaking off ties.

 

But on the outside, John remained unmoving, his eyes cold and blank stared out into the cold London night, wishing that he could hear Sherlock’s voice just once more.


End file.
